


Babylon

by Rehfan



Series: White Ladder [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Sixty-nine, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has second thoughts about being with Sherlock. Sherlock has second thoughts about John's second thoughts. John changes his mind. Sherlock doesn't.</p>
<p>The arc of a relationship. Two people who are meant to be with one another will always find one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Babylon

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】巴比伦](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6963202) by [Pattypancake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pattypancake/pseuds/Pattypancake)



> This is a Sherlock Johnlock fanfic that is based on the music of David Gray's album, White Ladder. Each chapter is named after each track in sequence and is headed with a quote from that particular song.
> 
> The album was released in 1999, but it's one of my favorite albums and it is available for download on iTunes. Please download it. You won't regret it.
> 
> Part Two is based on this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hri6ft52YA8

“Friday night I’m going nowhere/ All the lights are turning green to red.

Turning over TV stations/ Situations running through my head.

Looking back through time you know it’s clear that I’ve been blind;

I’ve been a fool.

To open up my heart to all that jealousy, that bitterness, that ridicule.”

 

 

 

The strains of the violin coming from the living room woke John from his slumbers. Sherlock knew this because he turned and saw a scruffy, sleepy, angry John glaring at him over his overstuffed chair back.

“Could you please just come to bed, Sherlock?”

“I need this time to think, John. You know that.” Sherlock paused and looked at him curiously. “Why are you objecting to my playing tonight? You haven’t objected to this in months and when you do, you have to be to the surgery early. You don’t have to be to the surgery early tomorrow so what could possibly be your cause for all this anger?”

“Really, Sherlock?” said John. “Really? You’ve forgotten that simple piece of information already? I only told you three weeks ago.”

“Three weeks ago the Baker case began, John. Anything unrelated to that case has been compartmentalized or deleted. Whatever are you referring to?”

“To my two-week medical conference in Dublin. That I leave for. Today. At 6am. It is now 3:35am. I’d like to get a bit of kip before I have to deal with the tedium of meeting colleagues at 9am at the bloody hotel. If that’s alright with you.”

“Medical conference? Dull. Skip it. Don’t go.”

“Can’t. Mandatory attendance. I don’t suppose that you recall that I told you that as well?”

“No. I must have deleted it.” And with that, Sherlock turned to face out the window and put the bow to the strings.

“Of course you did.” John muttered and turned to go back to bed, slamming the bedroom door in his anger.

More and more of John’s life details had been deleted over these past six months that he had been sleeping with Sherlock; his life had been upended. John knew that getting further involved with the mad genius was something he would have to adjust to, but he didn’t imagine that Sherlock would be capable of even more neglect than usual. If anything, John expected Sherlock to be more attentive. Turns out, Sherlock is only more attentive when they’re actually fucking. Other than that, things are either eerily the same or worse. 

John’s bedroom became the new lab. Good news for the kitchen, bad news for John’s belongings. He had nowhere to keep them. Boxes lined one section of wall in the upstairs bedroom and Sherlock’s wardrobe and dressers were bursting with John’s clothing. He felt displaced. He knew that Sherlock could be a force of nature, but the man simply steamrolled over John’s life. John lay in their bed staring at the ceiling and listened to the violin feeling his identity being scrubbed away with every note. Suddenly the music stopped. No, it didn’t quite; there was a light plucking of strings. That wasn’t so bad. John could sleep through that. Perhaps Sherlock did have a modicum of recognition for John’s needs after all.

~080~

What do you think about a 35 yr old who died of nicotine poisoning even though they didn’t smoke?  -- SH

I don’t have time for this. – JW

Yes you do. – SH

Talk to your skull. I’m busy at the conference. – JW

You’re most likely in a lecture. Probably about something banal. That couldn’t possibly be exciting. Now tell me what you think. -- SH

You really are an annoying prat, you know that? – JW

I need a medical opinion. – SH

Call Molly. – JW

And now they’re hinting at taking my phone. Thanks for that. – JW

Tell them you’re working. -- SH

I’m not going to lie. – JW

You’re not lying. You ARE working. Just tell them and then leave the room. – SH

I’m NOT working for you while I’m here! Stop texting or I’ll stop responding. I swear it Sherlock! – JW

John put his phone back in his pocket and sighed. He smiled an apology to the lecturer and she continued in her droning voice about the importance of hygiene in the workplace. Sherlock was right. It was a stupid lecture and he was bored out of his mind. He hated himself for admitting it. 

Sherlock was so needy. What did Sherlock do before he came along? Lestrade said he was unbearable. John thought that Sherlock was pretty unbearable now. But then there was the drug use. Sherlock had had danger nights during their friendship but nothing had ever come of it. A mild wave of panic hit John and he wondered if Sherlock was tempted to use while he was gone. He reasoned not. He had a case and from the small amount of detail that he was given, he assumed it was a most curious one. That would keep his gears clicking right along.

John rolled his eyes as another text came through. He pulled the phone out of his pocket as a reflex and cursed himself for being so weak-minded.

Well? – SH

John didn’t respond. Another came:

John, you’re being childish. – SH

John chuckled out loud at that one, garnering looks of scorn from his neighbors. He put the phone away and not a minute later it buzzed again:

I could have Mycroft get you out of the damn conference all together. – SH

John sighed again and returned the phone to his pocket determined not to look at it again for the duration of the conference. Well… perhaps the duration of this lecture. Or… maybe until the first break. The phone buzzed again and John reached into his pocket, but didn’t take it out. It buzzed a second time. And then it buzzed a third. John couldn’t stand it anymore.

What do I need to do to get you to answer me? Strip? – SH

[Image: 1]

[Image: 2]

John’s eyes went wide. Sherlock would try something like this. It was tempting to see what he had sent, but the images had to be downloaded to his phone in order for him to see them.

[Image: 3]

Oh dear God. What the hell is his problem?

[Image: 4]

I would say that a 35 year old who was killed with nicotine and yet never smoked had to have it administered to his bloodstream by some other means. Perhaps nicotine patches? I know a certain consulting detective who has attempted the same demise several times. – JW

Thank you, John. Was that so difficult? – SH

Later that night John was reviewing the materials for the next day’s lecture when his phone buzzed again.

Well? – SH

Well what? – JW

Did you like them? – SH

Like what? The lectures? – JW

There was a pause for about a minute. And then another text came through:

Did you even LOOK at them? -- SH

John began to type “Look at what” and then erased it. Of course! The pictures Sherlock sent. The naked pictures Sherlock sent. John had somehow forgotten all about them. How could he do that? Was he getting so complacent that sex was starting to bore him? He hoped not. He opened the first image:

It was a picture of Sherlock’s hand on his belt buckle. One finger was under the leather, pulling the belt open. John felt a surge of heat hit his groin.

Image two: The belt was now open and Sherlock’s hand was unbuttoning his trousers. John quickly opened the next image.

The button was opened and the zipper was coming down. A peek of underwear was showing: navy blue silk boxers that John had bought him. Sherlock’s erection was obvious. John’s own trousers were starting to get a bit uncomfortable at the moment. John desperately needed to know what image four contained.

Image four was a picture of Sherlock’s face. He was clearly aroused. His lips were wet and pink. His head was tilted back. His face was flushed. His eyes were closed. Taken all together the pictures made it look like Sherlock was-- oh my.

Well? – SH

They’re gorgeous. I’d love some more. – JW

Come home and you can have the real thing. – SH

Tempting, but I can’t. I’ve got four more days of this. – JW

I’m calling Mycroft. – SH

DON’T. – JW

Why not? I need you on this case. There are too many medical variables. – SH

I can’t help you. Call Molly. She’s a good sort when you’re not insulting her. She’ll help you. – JW

She kicked me out of the lab two days ago. – SH

What did you say to her? – JW

What do I ever say to her? She’s just being stroppy. She’ll buy another cat or another bottle of wine and she’ll get over it. In the mean time, I need you home. – SH

And I need to be here, Sherlock. Why do you always do this? – JW

Oh dear God, not you too. Honestly John, I don’t have time for this. There’s a murderer out there. – SH

Don’t change the subject. – JW

I wasn’t. The subject is me needing you for this case and wanting you home. Don’t you want to come home? – SH

Now THERE was a question. Did John want to come home to a man who can’t see past his own genius? John stared at his phone not quite knowing how to answer. 

John? – SH

I do want to come home. I just can’t do it. You’ll have to get on without me. I am sorry love. Goodnight. – JW

And with that John put his phone on the charger and switched it off completely. He had a few things to think about.

~080~

Sherlock stared at his phone. John’s last text still glowed up at him. It wasn’t the text that had Sherlock so confounded. It was the pause before the text that worried him. Why did John hesitate about wanting to come home? Did he really have to think about it? Why did he have to think about it?

Sherlock wrapped his blue robe about his thin frame and threw himself on the couch. Fingers steepled under his chin he went to his mind palace and looked in the file marked: John.

He saw all the things that meant John to him: jumpers, tea, soft smiles, wide laughter, hot kisses, serious studying eyes, disapproving frowns, warm embraces, comforting sighs, passionate orgasms. Sherlock sat upright. He looked around the quiet apartment noting all the things that screamed of John’s presence: his chair with his favorite blanket thrown over it, his tea mug in its place in the kitchen, that stupid lucky cat that he bought during the banker case sitting on the mantle. The place was also quite a mess, something that John would never approve of.

The clock in the kitchen kept time with Sherlock’s heartbeat and both were beginning to drive him mad. The amount of No John in the place was beginning to make his skin itch. This never happened before. Why was it happening now? It was the sex. It had to be. It was the only factor that had changed. Well… that and John’s insistence that they actually have a real date every once in a while: movies, dinner, boring. Come to think of it, it had been some time since that had happened. How long? Sherlock thought back. Three months and two weeks ago. They went to see that action film John was so keen on. That was just before the Meyer case. That was just a matter of a few days work. John hadn’t brought up dating since. Why? What happened that he didn’t see?

Sherlock was no good at spotting his social flaws. He had deleted most of what mummy had taught him about tact and good grace. It got in the way of doing his job. When a murderer was afoot there was no time for niceties. But this was important. This was about John. John didn’t want to come home. That must mean that John didn’t want--. Sherlock shoved that thought from his mind. It was too horrible to contemplate. But it was the very crux of the problem, wasn’t it?

The Meyer case had to be the key. Sherlock lay back down and reviewed the facts of the case: murder and rape of a 13-year old girl in her home. All the windows and doors were locked so she had to know her attacker. The child was home alone studying in her room. Her body was found stuffed in the tumble drier.

Sherlock recalled that her room was that mixture of a child playing at being a woman: powder pink walls covered with posters of the latest teen pop idol, stuffed animals on the bed, awards for gymnastics on a white shelf above her bed, all normal to be sure, but the hidden makeup, the thong, and a journal tucked between the mattress and the box spring were indicators of sexual proclivities and secrecy.

The journal had been the most enlightening thing. He remembered finding it and flipping open a page near the end of her entries. The victim’s mother and step-father stood in the doorway and he read aloud the bubbly child scrawl about Timmy Matherson and how he had taken her virginity six weeks before the murder and she had called off their relationship the week prior to the murder. The parents were clearly horrified, but honestly, didn’t they realize that they’re daughter was sexually active? Why was this a surprise to them? Parents could be so obtuse. Besides, this made little Timmy suspect number one.

John gave his ‘bit not good’ glare when the mother broke down crying. Was that so bad? He had been abrupt with his revelations before so what was the difference now? He supposed if Anderson had been more thorough in his searching methods that Lestrade would have broken it to her parents gently, but what good would that have done? It would have been wasting valuable time. Time that could have been spent picking up Matherson. 

Only later was it discovered that Matherson was her half-brother from her father’s second marriage. Revolting certainly, but nothing compared to anything else they had dealt with. 

Sherlock’s confusion only led to frustration. The Meyer case was nothing special. Nothing different happened during it. Why was it then that John dropped the pressure to date properly? It didn’t make sense. And since then, nothing was different: they still worked on cases, still had tiffs over who bought the milk last, etc. The sexual congress still happened and judging from John’s reactions to the pictures he just sent on his phone there was still an attraction there for John.

But John was of a more sentimental sort than he. That was the biggest difference between the two of them. John was the one more likely to call him ‘love’ and ‘pet’. John was the one who would get him thoughtful things like the mini-magnifying glass to replace the one that had broken. John would cover him with blankets and bring him tea when he was done in with exhaustion. John would be the one humming tunelessly in the kitchen the morning after coitus. 

Sherlock, while capable of all these things, never did a one of them. It was simply not the Holmes way. No affectionate hug around the neck as someone was typing on a laptop. No kisses on the neck in passing – save for that one experiment after their first time. Sherlock was simply more direct. There were many times that he would get into the shower while John was still in there. John would yell at first, but then be mollified with wet kisses and oral sex.

When Sherlock wanted sex, he simply went up to John and took it. John never objected. Most times he was quite enthusiastic and required little in the way of coercion. Wasn’t this a pattern that they had established over the past six months that seemed to work for both of them? But they hadn’t been separated for this long in those six months. With this Dublin trip, John had time away from Sherlock in order to gain some perspective. Sherlock imagined that what John was seeing from his current perspective wasn’t all that flattering for Sherlock.

Perhaps the solution would be to go back to the way it all was before? Sex and orgasms were just chemical reactions anyway. What possible value could they have to either of them? Then John could concentrate on the job at hand and not get so bogged down with the niceties and pleasantries and dating. After all, John was a doctor. Caring for people ran in his blood. The cups of tea and blankets would still be there if they broke the physical stuff off. Wouldn’t they?

It rankled Sherlock to not be aware of why John stopped with all of his incessant dating ideas. But then, Sherlock wasn’t really bothered about it all stopping. The sex was enough. It was good when his brain got to shut off. It was like rebooting a computer. He found that it helped him sort things out better. After sex with John his head felt clearer, more organized.

But what if John started to refuse him? What was he to do then? He would never force John to do what he wanted. He could trick him of course, but that would only build up resentment and John was capable of holding a grudge for a very long time. And then he might move out. No, it was better to keep the status quo on when it came to initiating sex. Any alternatives would be too horrible for Sherlock to contemplate. So back to the question: what if John refused him and left?

The best defense is always a good offense. Sherlock decided that it all had to end. No more sex meant John could go back to being his colleague. That was enough for Sherlock. That is where Sherlock needed him most. If John came home and wanted sexual congress, Sherlock would grant it under the understanding that it was to be for the last time. Sherlock would have to learn to live without the mental reboots, which was regrettable. But John would be fine. After all, he’s the man that declared war on Afghanistan. Why would this be a problem for him?

~080~

John sat in his seat on the plane happy to be heading back to London. Dublin is nice, but it’s not home. Home. The word had been spinning in his head ever since Sherlock’s last text four days ago. Home had meant 221B. Home had meant a hot cuppa and a comfortable chair. Home had meant following a mad genius around London risking life and limb to catch criminals. But lately, home had meant being in the arms of a man he loved.

Jesus, if you had told John Hamish Watson that he would be in a full-fledged relationship with a man a year ago, he would have laughed his arse off. And yet, here he was. Flying home to see the most annoying, selfish git God placed on earth and he couldn’t wait to see his beautiful face.

Four days free from Sherlock’s texts were a bit worrying, but ultimately were a godsend. It had given John time to focus on the conference and when he had free time, he spent it thinking about what he really wanted from Sherlock.

It had been ages since they had a proper date. When was that? Just before that poor girl that was raped and killed. Sherlock had upset the family quite badly. Just like him to announce a girl’s loss of innocence in front of the very people raising her. Bad business, that. He really should have thought that through. But that’s Sherlock. He’s rubbish at sensitive situations. He’s selfish and bull-headed and when he’s up against a problem he’s like a bulldog with a bone. He’s relentless.

Part of John wanted to hate Sherlock constantly. But a bigger part of him wanted to hug the man tightly and tell him that everything was alright. John could see that desperate little boy trying to keep up with Mycroft’s keen observations of the world. He could see Sherlock growing up in big brother’s shadow and hating every minute of it; hating that his mummy praised Mycroft more because of his prestigious achievements in life.

He could see Sherlock attempting to cope by shooting drugs into his arms. Of course he did it by way of rebellion against everything his brother represented, but also because his brain was making him crazy and, for all its efforts, it was still nothing compared to the brain in Mycroft’s head. It was never good enough. It was never smart enough. It was never quick enough. But it was driving him mad and so he had to regain focus with cocaine. He had to regain control through the drug. It was a twisted scenario.

John was sick at heart for not knowing Sherlock during those early formative years. Sherlock ate up John’s praise of his intelligence. He seemed to thrive on it. If John had known Sherlock when they were lads, Sherlock might have actually known a friend and had turned out to be a different man altogether. There would probably have never been any drug use. He would have had a refuge in John. He would have always been needy, pushy, and socially inept, but there would have been a fighting chance for him.

John looked out the window of the aircraft at the water below. Sherlock needed John in his life perhaps more than John needed him – which was saying something. So that was it. All John wanted to do was to get up those stairs, throw his bags on the carpet at 221B and hold that precious man in his arms. John wanted to protect that sad little boy for the rest of his life. John wanted to come home.

~080~

The first kiss was a bruising one. John leaned over Sherlock as he sat in his chair and held that beautiful face in his hands. John’s knee was beside Sherlock’s thigh and the doctor put his bodyweight on the detective. John was so happy to see Sherlock that all thought of subtlety went right out the window. John didn’t even bother to take off his jacket. He just dropped his bags and pounced.

The kiss softened enough for their tongues to touch and a fire burst inside of John’s belly at the sensation. Oh god he had missed this. Slowly, their tongues explored each other’s mouths until both men were panting.

“John, I need --” Sherlock started.

“No. No, Sherlock. Don’t talk. Just take your clothes off,” said John finally stopping long enough to strip off his jacket. “I want you naked in under ten seconds, love. I missed you so much.” No sooner had the jacket hit the living room floor, John’s shirt and undershirt followed it.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and John felt Sherlock’s pulse quicken when he kissed Sherlock’s neck just below his ear. Sherlock was taking way too long to unbutton that shirt of his and John’s hands raced to the bottom end of it to start the unbuttoning from there. Their hands met in the middle and clutched together for a moment before rushing to the chest of the other. John absently noted that Sherlock had lost some weight in the two weeks he was gone, but he had been on a case. He made a mental note to get Sherlock to eat something once he was thoroughly fucked. He slowly licked and sucked his way down Sherlock’s long neck. Sherlock’s groans of approval caused John’s cock to twitch.

Heat was building in John’s belly and was beginning to raise the temperature in the room. John had to have Sherlock’s cock in his mouth right now. He dropped to his knees before Sherlock and proceeded to unbuckle the detective’s belt and unfasten his trousers. Placing his mouth to the cloth, he huffed over Sherlock’s growing erection the way he knew Sherlock liked.

John felt the strongest urge to do everything that Sherlock desired. He wanted to take care of his detective. Four days of not communicating with him made him feel guilty, as if the neglect was intentional. John knew that the days he spent considering his future with Sherlock as his lover as well as his friend were valuable. The opportunity that the time and distance afforded was necessary because the detective’s strong personality could sway John’s opinions and confuse his judgment. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock was in possession of an incredibly distracting body. Here in their home and surrounded by Sherlock’s scent John knew he had made the right decision. He couldn’t wait to be skin to skin with this beautiful man and hold him forever.

~080~

Would John mind terribly not knowing that this was the last time they would have intercourse? Could he keep it to the end after they were both sated and comfortable? Sherlock hoped so. John was always more accepting of things post-coitus. Or, would John make it more special if he knew beforehand? He probably would. Sentiment. So what was more selfish? Waiting and letting the sex be as it was? Or telling him now and having the sex be even better?

Sherlock chose to tell John.

“John, I- I- I… Hnnnggh…” Sherlock stuttered as John took his cock in his mouth in one. All attempts at conversation had been cut short by this action, this perfection. Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes. He knew he was right in needing to break this off. John would understand in time. But for right now, Sherlock’s brain was shutting down.

John was tonguing his frenulum and causing sparks to fire off down his legs. Sherlock looked down. A pair of beautiful dark blue eyes looked up at him and watched as he came undone. Sherlock caressed John’s hair, tracing fingertips around his ears, along his jawline and back up into his hair again. John deep-throated him again. Oh dear god. How amazing was this man’s mouth?

Why did he want to end this? The warmth of this, the pressure of that tongue, it was all so perfect and oh… god, John…more…

John said something about being naked. That sounded like a good idea.

Sherlock took off his shirt and threw it on the floor. He attempted to squirm his feet out of his shoes. Without missing a stroke of his mouth on Sherlock’s prick, John reached down and helped Sherlock get his shoes and socks off. Sherlock lifted up carefully and his trousers and pants soon joined his shirt.

John licked at Sherlock’s slit. The salt and bitter taste of Sherlock’s precum hit John’s tongue and he hummed with pleasure. Sherlock caressed John’s hair and shoulders, long thin fingers lightly tracing circles onto his skin.

“I missed you too, John,” murmured Sherlock, his voice at a much lower register than normal. “I didn’t realize how much until now.”

John worked Sherlock’s cock, his mouth sucking gently at the head and his hand stroking his shaft with light, smooth strokes. The light touch was maddening. So much sensation. Not enough sensation. More. Sherlock needed more.

He watched as John used his free hand to open his own trousers and press against his hard-on.

“Let me,” said Sherlock.

John looked up at him, a question in his eyes. Sherlock took John’s face in his hands and pulled his mouth away. The separation was awful but would only be temporary, considering the scenario Sherlock had in mind. John backed away.

“Take off your clothes,” said Sherlock. As John stood and stripped, the detective’s eyes never left John’s body. He noticed everything, taking it all in: the flex of John’s bicep as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers, the cut of muscle just above his hip where his torso ended, the light brown hair that surrounded his engorged prick, the shine of the precum at the head. John stood before him completely naked… no…exposed, panting, resplendent.

“Lie down,” said Sherlock.

John raised his eyebrows. “Here? Right in the sitting room?” he asked.

“Right here. Right where it all began,” said Sherlock. Sometimes sentiment was a good thing.

John cocked a grin at him and lay down, his feet to the fireplace. He looked at Sherlock expectantly. “Is this meant to be some sort of kink for you? Having sex in front of the fireplace?”

“Wasn’t thinking along those lines, but I suppose it could be termed as romantic,” said Sherlock. He added: “You do look lovely.”

John did look lovely. And so very trusting. And open, honest, beguiling, true… and mine, thought Sherlock. 

I don’t deserve him.

“Were you going somewhere with this, or am I meant to just turn blue from the cold floor like a body at a crime scene?” said John. An amused smile played on his lips. He held his arms out. “Come here, gorgeous.”

Sherlock kneeled at John’s head and looked down at his face. He kissed John slowly and tried not to mash his chin into John’s nose. John’s arms came up to rub along the back of his head and up along his shoulders. Sherlock worked his tongue and lips down John’s throat, along his collarbone and spent some time caressing his scar, licking at the old wound gently. Sherlock’s hands moved up along John’s ribs and stopped at his hips. John’s hands set fire to Sherlock’s skin as they moved along his back and ribs. Slowly, achingly, Sherlock moved his mouth closer and closer to John’s eager cock. As Sherlock passed over John, the doctor would bring his head up to kiss and lick at Sherlock’s chest and stomach, dipping his tongue into Sherlock’s navel and causing him to gasp. Sherlock returned the favor with a swift lick of John’s slit.

Both men groaned their pleasure around mouthfuls of cock. Hands moved over buttocks and scrotum, taking and giving pleasure with the sensation of the touch. Strokes were slow and almost languid at first, but John’s need to come was urgent and soon his mouth was imitating the same thrust as his hips.

This was too perfect. It couldn’t go on. Sherlock’s balls felt so tight. He knew John was close as well. He wanted to taste John’s cum. He needed this. There was a sudden slap of a hand on Sherlock’s arse and he came just from that. John groaned and spent himself in Sherlock’s hot mouth at almost the same time. Sherlock swallowed by reflex. He sucked John’s cock, cleaning it with his tongue and rolled off of him.

John was up instantly and moving to kiss Sherlock. Their senses reeled with the taste of both of them blending, tongues velvet soft against one another, teeth nipping at lips, hungry still for that last bit of connection.

“Oh god, Sherlock,” said John. “I do love you.”

Sherlock’s heart stopped. No declaration of love had been made before by either man. He gazed at John as the two lay on the floor of 221B. Sadness threatened to cause Sherlock to change his mind. But he decided that even though this was perfect, eventually John would change his mind and go away. It was inevitable. Sherlock couldn’t bear losing him, but didn’t know how to hang on to him. He didn’t know how to play this game.

“John,” Sherlock began.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock. That isn’t the sex haze talking. Meant to say that after I first kissed you,” said John. Sleep was edging in on his face and in his voice. “I missed you so much. And don’t worry that you have to say it back. It’s alright.”

Sherlock watched as John’s eyes drifted closed. John had a hand on Sherlock’s hip and leg wrapped around him. He always slept against Sherlock this way, usually snuggling into Sherlock’s neck. It was strangely comforting. Catalogue another thing that Sherlock was going to miss.

“John?” said Sherlock again.

“Hmm?” said John, the post-coitus sleep hitting him hard. Between the flight and the sex, his body had had enough.

“John I tried to tell you when you first came back, but you didn’t let me,” said Sherlock.

“Tell me what, love?” said John. His eyes were shut, but he was still listening.

“I need to end this.”


End file.
